


Unvoiced Resolutions

by Aednat_the_Fourteenth



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anxious d'Artagnan, Big Brother Aramis, Duty, Family, Friendship, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Post-Series, turning point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 09:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10828233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aednat_the_Fourteenth/pseuds/Aednat_the_Fourteenth
Summary: D’Artagnan had never felt the need to make a resolution before. But today is not like any other day. Will Aramis help him to settle his troubled mind?--Set post-season 3, so spoilers all over the place.My second entry for January 2017’s “Fête des Mousquetaires” competition. Theme: “resolutions.”





	Unvoiced Resolutions

Athos never made any resolutions. He didn’t want to have to break them. After Milady, he didn’t trust himself with commitments, except for the ones he’d unconsciously made toward Sylvie and his brothers. So, he lived in the moment, and, always the balanced one, relied on his great intelligence and deep sense of justice to recognize the right choices when they made themselves available. That served him well.

 

Porthos made small, important ones, often, and kept true to them. He didn’t make any careless promises, either to others or himself. He had learned how to read and write, had gotten rid of his _Court_ ’s manners, had worked a lot on his temper, and had even slowed down on the gambling for a while, after a particularly grueling week when his incessant cheating had managed to get him and his brothers involved in eight tavern brawls.

 

Aramis did more than make resolutions; he took vows, usually when he shouldn’t: when he was afraid, excited, shocked, well… emotional, at any rate. So it was no surprise to anyone when he ended up breaking them. It was odd, almost touching, to see such a smart man so driven by his feelings. Still, he had never needed any pledge to live up to, or even higher than, the most essential standards of his existence.

 

As for D’Artagnan… Well, D’Artagnan was not sure he’d ever considered the question before. He had made some big decisions in his life, obviously, but had rarely felt the need to stop and phrase them. Compared to his brothers, he had lived a pretty peaceful life, until his father died. His family was not particularly wealthy, yet they had money and land enough to put food on the table several times a day, and he had received a good education, along with a lot of love and attention. So, anytime he became aware that some changes should be made in his life, he felt resourceful and confident enough to know he would just make them, eventually.

 

Now, as Constance’s cries of pain filled the small room the midwife had forced him to wait in, he was overcome with the urge to take as many oaths as he could.

_I will protect you, every day of your life._

_I will hold your hand when you’re scared, take you into my arms when you’re hurt, support whatever you want to be, stand by your side when you fight, teach you all that I am capable of and more._

_I will give you everything._

_I will always be there._

But those were not promises he should make. He knew that their fulfillment didn’t depend on him.

He was a Musketeer. He could die any day. Even if being a Captain, now, made him less at risk of getting trapped into the heat of the action, his life wasn’t his to dedicate to another being.

And, suddenly, the idea revolted him.

There was a remiss in the cries – not the first one, so his heart had learned not to jump anytime it happened – and a small knock at the outer door.

“Yes?” he invited.

The door opened and the narrow face of Planchet bounced inside. The boy, usually proud to the bone, looked like he wished the floor would swallow him up.

“Captain?”

“Yes, cadet?”

“I’m… very sorry to disturb you in those circumstances, but there is a man asking for you in the courtyard.”

“Whatever he wants, I’m sure that can wait,” D’Artagnan replied, assuming that, would the matter be any urgent, Planchet would have mentioned it.

“Yes but,” the lad insisted, bowing his head, growing more and more uneasy any second, “Captain, I… It… The man… He… _He looks like the Prime Minister!_ ” he managed to blurt out when D’Artagnan couldn’t resist sending him an irritated glare anymore.

“That’s all right, cadet. He was expecting me.”

D’Artagnan pondered between exasperation and amusement when the familiar figure of Aramis entered the room. His friend didn’t wear the laced silk garments that were now part of his everyday life, but well cut yet simple shirt and pants, along with a hooded jacket that, in addition to his sword and guns, made him look more like a gentleman of fortune than the respected statesman he had become a year earlier.

That was not the first time he had shown up to the garrison uninvited – because _no_ , that was never, ever expected – in such and attire. Occasionally, he had even escaped from the Palace incognito and met D’Artagnan in a tavern, where they had spent the night remembering old times and, once or twice, taken part into a fight over the defense of some innocent. That was incredibly irresponsible, and one of the only matters Aramis ever argued with Anne about. It was amusing to picture the Prime Minister, quarreling with the Queen and Regent of France, like an old couple, over his lack of self-preservation, while they managed to deal with all the complex diplomatic issues that ruled the country without raising their voices, and show unity in front of the Council even when they had disagreed to begin with.

“Thank you, Planchet, that will be all”, D’Artagnan said, before thinking better of it and amending: “Don’t… Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“Of course, Sir,” the lad answered. He then looked warily at Aramis and, after apparently hesitating between nodding and bowing, settled for something in-between and seemed relieved to leave the room.

“You know that you can still visit me,” D’Artagnan pointed out when the door closed behind the lad. “Officially.”

“What would be the fun in that?” the former Musketeer replied, taking his hood off.

D’Artagnan sighed. He couldn’t resolve to scold his friend for his carefree behavior. Aramis was smiling but he’d known him long enough to notice the touch of regret in his eyes. Aramis was a man of action. He had been a soldier for half his life, and had often admitted that the main reason for his enlistment had been his crave for adventure. He had turned out to be a surprisingly good Minister, with a sharp judgment, an acute sense of diplomacy, an unusual willingness to take advice and a remarkable ability to look at the big picture. Also, his unrivaled charm and the slight touch of provocation he liked to pepper his argumentation with, was very unsettling to the hung-up representatives who sometimes ended up losing their own manipulation techniques in his presence. Besides, and despite the numerous courtiers’ attempts to make him doubt himself, he acted like a fulfilled man who had nothing to prove, which made him very difficult to unnerve. Still, he missed his freedom and, as small a price it was to pay to be with Anne and his son, he must have felt miserable having an escort of soldiers clinging on to him anytime he left the Palace.

Both men sat on the bench D’Artagnan had been waiting on for the past hours, and a new cry split the silence.

“How does she fare?” Aramis inquired softly, and D’Artagnan realized he must have looked more alarmed than he’d thought.

“Fine, I’ve been informed. She’s so strong and brave. It has been hours!”

“It’s not uncommon, for a first time.”

“Yes, the midwife told me so. How did you know that it had begun?” he asked, not wanting the conversation to carry on about his anxiety when Constance was the one suffering.

“I have spies everywhere.” Aramis jested. D’Artagnan gave a short laugh in spite of himself, and felt grateful to his friend for having allowed it. “Constance told Serge to send for me.” Aramis explained more seriously. “She believed you would like some company. I’d have come sooner but I was stuck in a meeting with the English ambassador.”

D’Artagnan nodded sympathetically. In spite of the fragile peace agreement she and Aramis were close to obtaining with Spain, the Queen was multiplying her initiatives to strengthen France’s alliances in Europe. Aramis was working days and nights and the shadows under his eyes started to take a shade of brown close to his irises’. D’Artagnan had not seen him in weeks; it was a miracle he’d managed to come here today. A miracle or a major proof of devotion.

“I appreciate it, my friend,” D’Artagnan said, and the older man smiled again.

“So, what’s with the gloomy face?”

“What gloomy face?”

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“I was just thinking…” D’Artagnan began, then stopped, in the hope to give his brain some time to find the right words. When that failed, he just asked: “Did you ever wonder, when you were a Musketeer, how you would be able to protect your son if you were killed in duty?”

Aramis’ gentle features briefly took a gloomy shade of their own.

“When Louis was a baby, I often wondered if dying in duty was not the best thing I could do to keep him unharmed.”

D’Artagnan immediately felt his cheeks blush. “Oh, God,” he gasped. “Aramis, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking!” But his friend waved his concerns away and asked: “Are you questioning your future in the Musketeers?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t want to. Besides, what else would I do? Go back to what’s left of my father’s farm and start over? Constance loves Paris, and so do I. Being a Musketeer is all my life. I’ve never felt so useful and contended before meeting you, Athos, Porthos and Treville, and now… Now, I’m a Captain. I have a duty to my men!” There was another cry and D’Artagnan stopped talking, but didn’t resume his introspection when silence returned, so Aramis spoke:

“That answers your question pretty well, I believe.”

“Yes, but… I have different duties, now. Will have, soon,” he clarified, with a look at the inner door. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to… I… I just… I understand why Athos left,” he finished in a breath.

“I doubt very much that was the main reason.”

No, of course it was not. Deep down, Athos had always been a family man. He’d been raised in the idea that he would marry, have several kids, and administer his estate surrounded by them. Milady had stolen that from him, and he’d spent the following years running away from his past. It was normal that, having finally and unexpectedly found true love, and with a baby on the way, he would have wanted to take a step back from his Musketeer’s duties and get a taste of what should have always been. And if the break had been lasting longer than everyone would have imagined, well… That didn’t mean he, Sylvie and little Raoul would never come back. Their letters didn't mention anything suggesting it, at any rate.

D’Artagnan shook his head, hoping to clear it, but only managed to get long strands of hair in his face. _I should have cut it all weeks ago_ , he mused, and ran a hand through the mop. _God, even when I’m not risking my life, I’m just incapable of making time for simple things!_

“I’m scared, Aramis. I don’t know… Maybe it’s just the waiting, but I… I fear what would happen to them if I died. Did I tell you before that Constance was not sure about this? She believed it was too much of a responsibility to bring another human being into this world. That there were so many wretched children already, even before the war. It was I who insisted, I who said that we could raise a good person that would end up making the world a better place,” he added with a snort, as if the idea suddenly seemed preposterous. “But how could I keep my commitment if I’m not even there?”

“Well,” Aramis exhaled. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to give life lessons.” He then looked at D’Artagnan in the eyes, and apparently spotted something worth of making an effort, because he sighted again: “If you really believe resigning your commission is the right thing to do, nobody will think any less of you for doing so. But, take it from a man who was raised by a mother who gave up her life for him… That’s not something you want for your child.”

“You always say that you admire your mother.”

“I do. Almost all that I’ve achieved that I am proud of, I owe them to her. Not a day goes by that doesn’t remind me of what she sacrificed for me.” He seemed to hesitate. “But,” he confessed, “Sometimes, I think that, should I be able to go back in time and find a way to make her happy, I would throw this all away, just for the pleasure of seeing a genuine smile on her face.”

That didn’t sound like an overly depreciative comment, D’Artagnan thought, even if it was probably the less enthusiastic tone Aramis had ever used to speak of his mother. Not that he often talked about her. Yet, when he did, his usually lively voice tended to take a warm shade that sounded nothing like his present inflections. D’Artagnan was not sure it was his place to question further, but his friend seemed to expect a reaction, so he dared to ask:

“Have you ever… blamed her?”

First, Aramis didn’t reply, and even turned his head to stare at the bare stoned wall that was facing them, so D’Artagnan feared he’d gone too far. But, when his brother eventually responded, he was startled to realize that the older man had actually just taken his time to contemplate the question:

“No.” he answered. “How could I? I’m just... I’m just not sure that you can teach a child to value his own life if you keep showing him that yours doesn’t matter.”

D’Artagnan looked at his friend in amazement. Aramis was the incarnation of bigger than life. He felt and fought and loved so strongly, going through every day as if it was the last. He had seemed to settle down a bit with age, but the foolhardy young man who would throw himself over a bomb to protect a loved one was still in there, somewhere. The former Musketeer had never concealed his desperate need to feel alive, even if it meant looking at Death right in the eyes. Yet, D’Artagnan, who’d been considered quite reckless himself, would not have guessed that this rather unhealthy disposition was more than the open manifestation of an overflow of emotions his friend failed to bury behind his high-spirited, even-tempered nature.

“Don’t look at me as if you were sorry for me,” Aramis smiled when the silence lingered a little too much. “There’s no reason. I love my life.”

D’Artagnan blinked his distress away and managed to smirk. “I was just admiring your new wisdom,” he said. “You _should_ give life lessons.”

“Shut it!”

Both men laugh softly, and, twenty minutes later, all remaining gloominess was forgotten. Aramis was telling stories about his arrival to Paris, and D’Artagnan had just learned, half-surprised, that _he_ had also been slapped by Constance when they first met, when they were interrupted by a characteristic cry.

D’Artagnan jumped on his feet but remained standing there until Aramis grinned: “What are you waiting for?”

“Shouldn’t I remain here until they call for me?”

“No, of course, you…” Aramis began, before wincing. “I don’t know.”

The deliberation was cut short by the opening of the inner door. “Monsieur D’Artagnan?” the midwife asked gently.

“Yes.”

“You have a daughter.”

D’Artagnan badly repressed a cry and turned on his heels to face his now standing friend, who gave him a wide smile.

“I have a daughter!”

“Congratulations, my brother.” Aramis simply said, and then added: “I believe you’re allowed to go and see her, now.”

“Right!” D’Artagnan exclaimed. “Sure!” and he rushed through the door, before quickly turning back, almost bumping into the woman who had started following him.

“Aramis?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. And… Your life means the world to us.”

“I know,” the former Musketeer answered. “You’ve shown me.”

D’Artagnan barely registered the midwife taking notice of Aramis and stammering, “Good God! You look… You… God! You are…” while he rushed up the stairs, to the room where Constance and his daughter were waiting for him.

_I_ will _protect you_ , he thought again, this time with all the resolve he had ever been capable of summoning.

_I_ will _hold your hand, take you in my arms, support you whenever you need it, and give you everything I can, as long as I’m part of your life._

_I_ will _teach you all that I know._

_But I will never tell you this._

_I will_ show _you._

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> \- Originally posted on FFnet, for January 2017’s “Fête des Mousquetaires” competition.  
> \- For those who haven’t read the novels, Planchet’s name is a tribute to D’Artagnan’s loyal servant, and Raoul is the name Dumas gave to Athos’ son.  
> \- In 17th-century France, “Prime Minister” was not an official title, as it is now. It was used to refer to the most important minister of the government, whose actions would involve domestic policy, but also diplomacy, along with cultural and religious mater (poor Aramis will not have a good night's sleep soon).  
> -This time, my beta, grammar savior and frenchisms slayer is the fantastic ShadowDarkFlower. Many many thanks to her.


End file.
